


your walls around me (home)

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Alternative Canon, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:13:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Oliver smiled up at him from the couch, looking up from his book. The light from the fireplace cast him into stark color that seemed all the more startling in contrast to the muffled whiteness of the landscape outside.or,Oliver celebrates Hannukah with the Perlmans.





	your walls around me (home)

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose I'm late to this party but I only watched the movie today, and it made a strong impression. And left me with a very strong urge to fix things.

 

 

The door handle was awfully cold when Elio pushed it open it with his bare hands. He hissed, darting inside where it was warmer. He should have worn gloves, probably, but the trip from the car to the front door didn’t feel like it was worth the hassle. 

 

He brushed the snow off his coat so it wouldn’t wet anyone else's clothes as it melted. The hooks were overburdened because of the winter chill and everyone’s need to have just one more layer. Distracted, he touched the sleeve of his mother’s fur coat, enjoying the softness against his cold-bitten fingers. Beyond it was his father’s brown woollen coat that he’s had since Elio could remember. He’d bought it from Russia, and when Elio was younger he’d been convinced that it had belonged to a bear that his father had slain in heroic battle. That was when he still believed that his father wasn’t afraid of anything. He knew better now, and the coat was just a coat, lovingly crafted by someone in a country far away.

 

Tossed overtop the other coats, almost carelessly, was a leather jacket. Worn for image rather than to ward away the elements, it seemed almost out of place, as did the multitude of supplemental scarves and hats and mittens that accompanied it.

 

And its owner - 

 

His parents’ laughter drifted from the living room and Elio shook himself out of his stupor, kicked off his boots and walked down the hall with his socked feet on the cold tile, closing his eyes so he could feel the moment when they met the carpet through his soles. 

 

“You’re back.”

 

Elio kept his eyes shut for a moment, letting the voice echo, in his ears, in his chest. 

 

“Obvious statement,” he pointed out and opened his eyes. Oliver smiled up at him from the couch, looking up from his book. The light from the fireplace cast him into stark colour that seemed all the more startling in contrast to the muffled whiteness of the landscape outside. His blonde hair turned to bronze, the shadows stark in his cheekbones, in his eyes. He looked almost unfairly handsome for someone wearing several oversized sweaters while wrapped up in a colourful throw blanket.

 

“Not so,” Oliver shook his head, untucking a corner of his blanket as Elio came nearer, “you could have just been a figment of my imagination, appearing so suddenly. I could have fallen asleep, only to dream you, a  _ domovoj _  emerging from the fire.”

 

Elio snorted but took the implicit invitation to curl up next to him. Oliver had been on a Slavic folklore kick recently, devouring his father’s limited collection on the topic. 

 

Oliver tucked the blanket around them as Elio swayed into him, tucking himself underneath a broad arm and enjoying the blessed warmth. “You wouldn’t dream about me,” Elio muttered into his collarbone, rubbing his cheek against the wool sweater. Oliver’s grip on him tightened.

 

“I dream of you every night,” Oliver told him and Elio snorted, hiding his burning cheeks into his chest.

 

“Every night, huh?” he said, knowing that his tone would betray his pleasure at the words, no matter how dryly he meant to deliver it.

 

“Every night until you slept beside me again,” Oliver said solemnly. He touched the pads of his fingers to Elio’s chin, tipping his head up to press a kiss to his hair. To his forehead. To his nose, laughing when Elio wrinkled it.

 

“And then what?” Elio asked, worming his hand under Oliver’s sweater. “What did you dream about when I was lying beside you?”

 

Oliver made a thoughtful noise. “A marshmallow,” he said, and then he kissed the laughter right out of Elio’s mouth.

 

“I was dreaming of a huge marshmallow,” Oliver picked up the narration after a few kisses, “and I was so hungry, and I was eating it, and it got smaller and smaller and then I woke up and-”

 

“Let me guess,” Elio said, dryly, “you were without your pillow?”

 

“Because you had stolen it, yeah,” Oliver said, and he grinned so proudly when that made Elio laugh again. “So, you know all the dad jokes?”

 

“Have you forgotten who my father is?” Elio said. 

 

As if hearing their cue, Elio’s parents waltz into the living room, bearing stacks of papers. Elio and Oliver didn’t exactly spring apart, but they untangled into a less revealing position. Elio thought that perhaps his parents wouldn’t mind either way, but Oliver’s parents haven’t spoken to him since October, and that’s brought with it a measure of caution.

 

“You need to help us choose a new you, Oliver!” Annella said, smiling at them warmly. She and Elio’s father proceeded to narrate choice pieces of the applications to them, laughing uproariously at a particularly funny or stupid one.

 

“Did I get the same treatment last year?” Oliver asked, quietly. Elio grinned at him.

 

“Yup,” he said, and Oliver groaned, “I seem to remember Heidegger being involved somehow, but not much else, so it couldn’t have been so bad.”

 

It felt strange in hindsight, to know that he’d probably read something of Oliver’s, or heard it, or, had stood in his father’s study with papers that bore the imprints of Oliver’s fingertips. It felt strange that there was a time where he hadn’t known him. The thought spooked him, a little.

 

Oliver seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts because he tangled their fingers together under the blanket, the warmth and touch comforting. Elio settled, even though the nagging doubts remained, just off the edge of his consciousness, to emerge once he was alone again, without the grounding touch of Oliver’s palm, waiting anxiously for the next letter, the next phone call, the next visit.

 

His parents drifted out of the living room, to continue their performance in the study, their laughter trailing behind them, the sound comforting and familiar. Elio moved closer to Oliver, laying his head on his chest as he picked up his book. 

 

“What are you reading?” Elio asked, and sensing the unspoken request, Oliver began to read out loud. 

 

He had a good reading voice, smooth and free of inflexion. Elio could feel the vibrations of the words through his chest, undercut by the muffled beating of his heart.

 

“You’ll have to read me the Iliad one day,” Elio said, once Oliver had paused for a sip of his drink.

 

“Why the Iliad in particular?” Oliver asked. Elio avoided his gaze, staring instead at the book in his hands and the fireplace beyond it. He shrugged.

 

Oliver sighed and ran his fingers through Elio’s hair, smoothing it away from his face. “You’d fancy us as Achilles and Patroclus?” he asked. 

 

Oliver knew him well. Elio rolled onto his back to look up at him. From this angle, his jawline seemed stark and noble, a fond smile on his lips. 

 

“No,” Elio said, softly, “I’d prefer something less tragic.”

 

Oliver reached out to touch the pads of his fingers to Elio’s lips. Reflexively, he kissed them, watching Oliver’s eyes darken. Their gazes held for a few long moments. The fireplace cracked loudly and they broke apart at the sound. Elio turned on his side but left his head in Oliver’s lap.

 

Unbidden, the image of Mounir and Isaac came to mind, in their matching tuxes, in their muted affection. They weren’t heroic at all. They were, in their mannerisms, even a little bit funny. Superimposing his and Oliver’s face over theirs didn’t seem to look right, but maybe there was something there anyway. Something in the middle. Something far away from tragedy.

 

Oliver stroked his hair for a few minutes, then picked up his book and returned to reading.

 

Elio couldn’t say how long they laid there. Time moved too slow and too quickly at the same time. He could hear his parents voices in the distance and the clanging of pots and pans from the kitchen. Oliver breathed slow and steady behind him, his hand resting on Elio’s head, the fire casting shadows of them on the walls.

 

“Hey,” Oliver suddenly said, touching Elio’s cheek, “hey, what’s wrong?”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re crying,” Oliver said, softly.

 

Elio sat up, confused, as Oliver cupped his face, wiping his cheeks with his thumbs. Oliver looked concerned, and Elio couldn’t stop staring at him, at the soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes, the bow of his mouth.

 

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked again, sounding stricken.

 

“I’m happy,” Elio told him, softly, voice breaking, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

 

Oliver made a soft noise and pulled him closer, into the circle of his arms. It was as if his sudden awareness of his tears allowed them to overwhelm him, so all Elio could do was press his face into Oliver’s shoulder and wait for them to pass.

 

They sat like this until the clink of plates announced Mafalda’s presence. 

 

Oliver pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping Elio’s cheeks, and then his own. He smiled when he noticed Elio was watching, soft and comforting, and Elio’s answering smile felt a little wobbly, but it was sincere.

 

Outside, the snow fell, blanketing the ground, smothering the life in it for a few more months. Inside, there was food, fire and love, and Oliver’s hand, broad and reassuring. It felt good. It felt like something that was going to make him happy.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- 'domovoj' is a protective house spirit from Slavic folklore  
> \- I suppose you all know the tale of Achilles and Patroclus, but in case you don't - Patroclus died and Achilles almost killed himself in his grief. The Iliad was also a favourite of Alexander the Great, who had his own tragic romance with Hephaistion, one of his generals. This is referenced in Sufjan Steven's song 'Mystery of Love', from which this story's title is from


End file.
